


we tried to sing of love before the stage fell apart

by philthestone



Series: and there's a keepsake my mother gave me [5]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Infinity War Speculation, listen this is ... a Fascinating Friendship Possibility folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 13:43:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13342449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: They found him in the wreckage of his ship, his entire people, and Gamora wonders how he has not snapped, yet. She herself was only a little girl, but she knows that were it to happen again, nothing of her would truly remain.She doesn’t trust herself, toremain. Perhaps this is why she cannot fully trust the God of Thunder, either.





	we tried to sing of love before the stage fell apart

**Author's Note:**

> dear friends ive struggled with writers block all break and now of course on the second day of classes i spend 2 straight hours speed-typing this out. i have,,,,,,,,,,, three other fics i need to be working on nbd but i couldnt shake this thought. i really think gamora and thor would .... Understand something about each other? that's the wrong word. like, theyd have an indescribably wholesome friendship that is also laden with infinite sadness
> 
> infinity war speculation ahead, but no actual spoilers outside of what we saw in the trailer. title's from my mom's absolute favorite supertramp song ever, and reviews are happy endings

She hesitates in the hatchway to the common area, her hand on the doorjamb, watching him hunched over one of the schematics Rocket drew up. The unexpectedly soft lines of his face are hardened into a frown.

He is large, in every sense of the word – takes up a lot of space in their tiny ship, despite the fact that he is not that much taller or more broad-shouldered than Peter or Drax. Gamora suspects that it must be the way he carries himself – has carried himself since birth, the Prince of an entire realm.

Here, on their tiny modified M-ship. Severed from his people, cut adrift into the vast emptiness of space, because of a monster that it seems will ever haunt Gamora’s shadow.

She stands utterly still in the doorway, eyes narrowed and face shadowed by the hall light behind her, and startles when he straightens his posture and inclines his head – respectful. 

She did not expect he would notice her there, silent as she was.

“Lady Gamora,” says the God of Thunder, eyes flicking up from the holos spread in front of him to catch hers. There’s a quiet mirth there that speaks of experience catching people hiding in the shadows, like he knows that she didn’t expect him to notice her presence. Gamora purses her lips and raises her chin, padding into the room and letting herself perch on the arm of the couch across from him.

“Thor.” 

He smiles, apparently pleased at the tone of her voice. Rocket repeats his introduction to him with mockery and Peter is perhaps more guarded than he might be usually, still wrong-footed over the idea of godhood. Drax is warm enough, she supposes, and Mantis a bit awestruck, but Gamora has heard of the Prince of Asgard before, and she has no qualms about treating him with the appropriate deference.

How much she trusts him is another matter entirely. 

She watches as his eyes fall back down to the plans he was studying so intently, her fingers digging into her thighs as the frown settles over his face again. On the far side of the maps is the attachment to the Nova alert, the desperate distress call.

Millions dead.

The words and numbers are too familiar, Gamora thinks, a sudden tightness to her throat. She refuses to cry again – cannot, for fear that if she does, a dam will break. There are only so many times she can endure without collapsing, and it is easier to let the steel in her bones seep into her heart and mind. She turns her head, traces the soft, dimmed lights of the common room with her eyes.

They have a plan. Perhaps not a full plan, but more than twelve percent. More than fifty, even, and she is not even being generous.

“You are certain that this will work,” says Thor suddenly, deep voice overloud in the unnatural quietude of the ship – an uncharacteristic lack of clamour and chaos for this time in the day cycle, giving way to nothing but the steady hum of the ship’s engine. Gamora feels her shoulders tighten at his words.

“I trust my teammates. You would do well to do so too.”

He huffs out half of a laugh, lines around his eyes deepening momentarily. He’s not a hardened man, Gamora has noticed, in the week or so they’ve had him aboard. Not guarded or unyielding.

_Not like herself_ , she wants to add.

“I suppose I haven’t any other choice, do I,” says Thor, scratching at the back of his neck with a heavy hand.

More … wearied, perhaps, Gamora thinks. A boyish gentleness that carries a draping, heavy burden of loss. It’s unlike anything she’s seen before – they found him in the wreckage of his ship, his entire people, and Gamora wonders how he has not snapped, yet. She herself was only a little girl, but she knows that were it to happen again, nothing of her would truly remain.

She doesn’t trust herself, to _remain_. Perhaps this is why she cannot fully trust the God of Thunder, either.

She sets her jaw, but – she’s come a long way, at least. The world may be ending, but she is not the same person that she was before.

“It won’t become easier,” she says, ambiguous enough that she does not inadvertently pry into the unspoken details of his loss – that she does not open the floor to questions about her own. “But this might make things better.”

“ _This_ –” She can’t help but wonder if she imagines the sharp blue that momentarily sparks through his uncovered eye – “this plan, you mean. This –” He exhales, heavy, run out of words, and for the first time since his abrupt awakening on the Milano’s single medical cot, she watches his shoulders slump completely, fold inwards and down. His hands go up to slide through the short bristle of his hair, the tendons taught and, for a very slight moment, trembling. 

Exhausted.

Gamora feels this acutely, but says nothing; strategic, perhaps, more than compassionate. She cannot help but ache for him, for his reflexive strength, for his ability to _endure_. But again – she trusts her family more than anything, and anyone outside of that no more than is absolutely necessary. Vulnerability is a commodity that must be kept close to the chest when everything might collapse at any moment. 

She thinks absently that she should call her sister.

“I would very much appreciate it if you might help me decipher your small companion’s shorthand coding,” he says finally, looking back up again. 

Gamora feels herself smile despite everything, the corners of her lips twitching. “Yes – Rocket’s gotten used to everyone knowing what he means.” _All of them have_.

_Not_ a weakness, Gamora reminds herself, although –

“You seem very certain about your place in all of this,” says Thor suddenly, something solid back in his posture. Like he’s coming to some sort of realization, and Gamora should not be surprised that he has been reading them the same way she has been reading him, but – and there it is – she is doing it out of a deep-cut need to survive, and behind his attendance there is no judgement or suspicion, but rather a simple, matter-of-fact observation.

He’s sharp, she’s not fool enough to have missed. Deceptively so, considering his strength and size, usually the sort of creature she would have judged to rely on those assets more than his intelligence.

Gamora holds Thor’s too-knowing gaze and sets her jaw, does not know how to respond, when a voice sounds from the doorway, achingly familiar and dear.

“– course for the other side of the star system, but Rocket says navigation’s gonna get a bit tricky.” She turns to see Peter shrug off his jacket and toss it onto the other side of the couch, looking tired and a bit rumpled but with as much softness and ease to his posture as she is familiar with. An errant curl is hanging over his eyebrow and there’s a smudge of grease on his t-shirt, but he seems bright-eyed enough, no different from his usual self after a long day. He offers Thor a half-nod and a, “Hey, man,” before pausing on his way across the room to touch her shoulder – a gentle, instinctual thing.

Gamora catches his hand and smiles at him – Peter, who claims to know her better than anyone, who smiles with such a peculiar kindness in his eyes, who is so determined that they will all come out of this alive. She can sense Thor’s inquiring gaze again, can tell that he recognizes Peter’s deliberate cheer to be most parts sincere where Gamora’s is not. 

All this time learning to be softer and it has only made it more easy for her to pretend, to smile and be gentle when there is no doubt in her mind about the way things are going to end. 

Gamora swallows once more at the resurging tightness in her throat.

“The armory?”

“Locked and loaded,” says Peter, and then grins like he’s made a joke, and she’s heard that one enough to know the expression, to grin a little too.

It’s easier to humor him, to make sure that he’s not endangering himself by worrying about her. 

“That’s good,” she says, and looks back across to Thor, whose questioning gaze is not lost entirely but who can apparently play this game as well as any other; he quirks Peter a smile of his own, quick-coming.

“So long as you know how to use those weapons.”

“Don’t let Drax hear you say that,” says Peter, his hand still on her shoulder, but she can feel him ease up a little – can sense that he’s becoming more comfortable around their stray companion by the hour. Emotional baggage aside, Thor has been nothing if not warm and companionable, in all the ways that Gamora knows Peter will respect in another person. And besides – finding common ground in the face of certain death is where they’re all most comfortable.

“Only a fool would do that,” says Thor easily, some of that earlier mirth lighting up his face, and she feels Peter’s laugh before she hears it, his large hand warm through the fabric of her shirt. But she can feel Thor’s inquiry even through his smile and so she lets her hand fall back and slip against Peter’s side, turns up to catch his eye. 

There are lines on his face that were not there five years ago, but his eyes are green and warm as ever, even now. Especially now.

“Hey – I think Mantis was the last in the kitchen, can you make sure she closed the cooler door properly?”

“Hm? Yeah, sure – I’ll grab my coat when I come back down, okay, don’t jettison it.”

“Twelve hour rule,” she says, surprised at how easily her own grin comes. It’s _easy_ , she thinks, because she _is_ certain of her place in all of this. She waits until she hears his familiar footsteps receding in the Milano’s main hall and turns to face the man in front of her, her smile slipping away.

“I apologize,” says Thor, after a long moment of silence. She wonders abruptly if he had heard of her, as she had him. She had had a reputation, after all. “I should not have presumed –”

“Thanos made me watch as he destroyed my home and family once,” she says, the words coming hard and precise of their own accord, once again magnified in the quiet of the room. She does not clasp her hands, but rests them easily against her knees. “I trust you understand that I would die before I let him do that again.”

The dimmed lights feel _right_ , for some reason. As though this is a confidential conversation. 

“I understand,” says Thor, quietly, and perhaps, Gamora thinks, it is – something of absolute truth but also to be hidden away completely. She thinks again that she should call her sister. 

Gamora regards him – still out of place in the cramped common room, too-large for the chair he’s sitting in. The God of Thunder, she thinks again. 

He’s telling the truth. She trusts him.

“Then we’re on the same page,” she says, light and conversational, and moves, slips down beside him to sort through Rocket’s cryptic abbreviations. The ship continues to hum, still too quiet, and Gamora ignores the ache in her chest, the way her heart almost stops in protest when Peter returns, still smiling, to grab his coat and drop a kiss into her hair before he makes his way to the cockpit.


End file.
